


Caught Fire—Incendiary

by Polly_Lynn



Series: Fire [2]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every inch of him—every cell in his body—is burning. Buzzing. He vibrates in place with memory of her warmth. Her scent and the barest graze of her lips on his skin. Her words in his ear: Amazing. You were right. That was amazing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught Fire—Incendiary

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: One-shot sequel a three-shot: Caught Fire; set just after The Final Nail (3 x 15)

 

* * *

He stands at the door of the bleak little room for who knows how long. A minute. An hour. A lifetime.

Every inch of him—every cell in his body—is burning. Buzzing. He vibrates in place with memory of her warmth. Her scent and the barest graze of her lips on his skin. Her words in his ear.

_Amazing. You were right. That was amazing._

He's not at the door then. He's not in some sad, desperate room in a sad, desperate club where he's spent more days and nights than he cares to count losing himself one way or another. He's not there at all.

He's in a cold, filthy alley with his palms cupping her face. Blood rising in her cheeks and her eyes going wide just before his mouth finds hers. He's  _with_ her and she's with him. Wholly. Completely, even when she pulls back, and he wishes for a moment he'd thought to keep his fingers locked around the wrist of her gun hand. Almost wishes, if he's honest, because death by her hand is a more than fair enough trade for the luxury of tasting her. Having his hands on her.

He's with her, and then he isn't. Cruelly isn't, because he's been sulking like a child sent from home. Licking wounds inflicted on someone he's not anymore. Someone he never was, and the thought paralyzes him anew.

_Without Damian Westlake, I'm a lawyer. I'm a grifter. I'm a rodeo clown. But I am not a writer. Without him, I'm not me._

It paralyzes him. It's seductive, and part of him—an exhausted, wounded part of him— wants to give in to the siren song of  _not much more than a bed_ and an unfamiliar ceiling to stare at. He almost  _does_ give in. He slinks back to the bed. To the chair and the sad contents of the survival kit he packed to run away from his life again. He sits, drawn down and down and down by the weight of everything. The last few days. The last little while.

It draws him down and he wants to give in, but she lingers. Not her scent exactly. Not the warmth of her body clinging to to chair or anything so impermanent.

The force of her personality, even though she came to him more awkward and unsure than he's ever seen her. The still-charged air of the small space and her words in his ear. The fire. She lingers and he knows who he is.

_Like it or not, I'm your plucky sidekick._

_Plucky sidekick always gets killed._

_Partner then._

She lingers, and he knows damned well who he is.

* * *

He's at her door. It's been forever since he was here. It's been no time at all, and the memory of his most recent foray into her personal space is the last thing he needs.

 _I know what Beckett would do_.

_Thank you. It's really sweet._

Sweet. It's not what he needs at all. Not what he wants her to think of when his name drifts through her mind. Child-like excitement at fitting another piece into the puzzle. Light and warmth kindling between them. That's not who he is at her door this time. Not who she is on the other side. Not this time.

He knocks sharply. Impatient at her footsteps. Impatient at the pause—the silence—as she peers out, even though she knows it's him. He knocks again, just as hard, but it's not until he opens his mouth, her name ready on his tongue, that she gives in. That he hears metal on metal and the creak of the door swinging open.

"Castle," she says, and it's so fucking complicated, the way she's standing there. The way she's looking at him like she's relieved and wary and guarded and breathless and too many fucking complicated things all at once.

It gets him where he needs to go. Turns him into the man he came here to be.

"Can I come in?" It's not even a formality. He's already pushed past her. Already stepped on what should've been her line this time.

_It's not a good idea._

_I know. Can I come in anyway?_

"So you decided to come . . . " She stumbles over the word blushes hard and curses not quite silently. "To  _go_  home."

She's no happier with that. The way she leans into the word. Leans into the correction and calls attention to it. She's no happier with anything, but he is. He's fierce with it. The way it knocks her back to have him here. The effect it has on her— _he_ has on her—and the way the air crackles between them, exactly like the day he knew. The  _moment_ he knew it was no good. Gina and leaving for the whole summer and the rest of it.

"I decided . . ."

He takes a step toward her. She takes a step back. Two. It's not exactly progress, except it is. She's moving them— _him_ —further into the apartment. Into her space. She realizes it too late. The dance has already carried them too far. Another two steps and her back will hit the high kitchen counter.

"Castle." She twists her fingers together. Both hands low at her thigh, and it's a plea.

"You came looking for me," he says.

It's softer than he'd like. Gentler, and he wants to make a fist. He wants it back. That fierceness that's brought him this far, but she's pleading with him, and this is more than air coming alive with sparks. It's more than attraction or a moment or two kisses in an alley. They're in so much deeper than that.

"Martha was worried." She shakes her head, miserable at the repetition. Too honest, though, not to give him the truth again. Too honest here and now, at least. "I was worried."

He barely hears it, even though he's close now. Even though she's stopped retreating. Dropped her busy hands to her sides, bringing them so close that their bodies would brush if either of them could take a deep enough breath.

"Amazing." He dips his head, finding the exact spot where her mouth swept over his skin. "I didn't know."

He breaks off, frowning. Her cheek drifts back and forth beneath his lips. The merest shake of her head. A denial, because that's not quite right, and they're being honest in their way. Even caught up in the heady feeling of being so near one another, they're being honest

_I didn't know_

It's not quite right.

"I knew. And then . . ."

He pulls back. Pain and instinct flooding in. Memory—eidetic memory—of loneliness. Then. Now. Every day in between, when he thinks about his life before her. His life without her. Loneliness so sharp and immediate that it makes him want to curl in on himself. It  _does_  make him curl in on himself. Makes him retreat again, embarrassment licking like a different kind of flame all around at the edges of him.

But she comes looking for him. Steps close, and he hates that it's weakness that wins the day. Hates that he's so fucking sad that she's raising up on her toes, bracing herself with one palm against his chest and the other curving around his shoulder, pressing down hard to reach his cheek. A consolation prize. A bitter  _what if,_  and he hates it enough to ignite a single spark. To awaken just a hint of the fierce determination that brought him this far.

He turns his head, swift and impulsive. Lingering and deliberate. A flashpoint and a slow burn all at once as his lips catch hers. As his tongue flicks out to taste the corner of her mouth and it comes to him again. Clarity. He knows exactly who he is as the small of her back hits the high counter and her fingers tighten in place as she tries not to fall. He knows exactly who  _she_ is in the soft cry that slips from her mouth so readily into his.

"Kate." It feels like a hundred years later when he murmurs her name. It feels like he's been kissing her forever. Holding her like this and feeling the warmth of her body and her breath mingling with his. "Kate, I . . ."

"Don't." She silences him. Swiftly. Desperately. Her hands come up and her thumbs sweep along his cheekbones as she kisses him. "Castle. Please. I . . ."

She falls silent herself. Hardly dares look at him as she swallows hard, and it's her heart pounding against his ribs, and as right as that feels—as  _honest—_ she doesn't need to worry about him going on. He's as stunned as she is.

_I love you_

Everything about him shouts it. End to end and over and over. From the rooftops. Everything in him  _has been_  shouting it for better than a year, and still, he's every bit as stunned as she is to find the words so ready on his tongue. His palm finds her jaw. Warm now. Slow, sultry color blooming as he sweeps her hair behind her ear.

"I won't."

He turns his head again. Into the curve of her palm this time, just glancing across it as she drops her hands helplessly to her sides once more. His own palm finds the nape of her neck to draw her near. To stop just shy of kissing her and linger there just long enough for both of them to know she wants it. She  _wants_  him to kiss her again.

"I won't for now," he says gently. He lets his cheek drift against hers. Lets his lips brush the skin just below her ear as he pulls her to his chest. "But I do." His teeth flash against her skin. They nip and taste and leave her gasping. "I do. And when . . . when I come looking for you, Kate. . . " He falters. Angry with himself for months wasted. With her and timing and fucking  _Josh_. With having to say everything between the lines. But it's no match for this steady-burn between them. Anger and fear and loneliness. None of it's any match for that, and he smiles into her hair. "We're gonna be amazing."

He lets her go. Forces himself to, though it happens in fits and starts. One hand falling away and his spine ticking upright, vertebra by vertebra. Dragging steps. He lets her go and makes his way somehow— _somehow_ —to the door.

He doesn't look back. Won't let himself, but he tugs the door to close it behind him, and she's tugging back. Just a little. Just enough that they're peering at each other with the warm light behind her spilling through the narrow gap. Seconds stretch out. A steady-burning spark.

_Amazing_

It's silent. Not even a breath stirring the air between them, but there's no mistaking the shape of the word on her lips as they each let go and the door closes between them. For now.

They'll be amazing.


End file.
